


a pocket full of posies

by erebones



Series: the secret garden [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Alternate Universe - Victorian, M/M, Teen Romance, The Secret Garden AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 00:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7822537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say there's a boy who lives in the Manor, hidden away from the rest of the world, but Carver has never seen him. </p><p>The Secret Garden fusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the garden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chiarascura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiarascura/gifts), [Earlgreyer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Earlgreyer/gifts), [mywordsflyup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mywordsflyup/gifts).



Carver has never met the boy in the Manor. Never met him, but he’s _heard_ things. Heard that he’s frail and white as snow, that he can’t leave the bed without a servant to help him. Heard that he’s got a hunchback, just like his father, and that’s why he can’t walk.

His mother doesn’t condone such idle talk under her humble straw-thatch roof, but Carver has ears. The servants gossip something terrible when there’s no one else around to hear, and whenever Mr Rutherford, the Head Gardener, allows Carver to take lunch in the kitchen with the others instead of tucking into whatever little lunch his mum sent along, talk flies. Talk about Lord Alexius and his short temper, talk about this maid and that stableboy, talk about the late Mistress Alexius and her wasting disease. Talk that young Master Alexius has the same sickness, and that’s why he’s never seen, just fading away in his bed with no one to talk to or play with.

Carver thinks it’s all rather dull—except the bit about the boy. _That_ , he thinks, is rather sad. But admitting as much would be admitting to partaking in gossip, and Mr Rutherford doesn’t like it when Carver gets too cosy with the staff. He says they’re not a good influence. And because Mr Rutherford is a good, decent man, if a bit crotchety sometimes, Carver holds his tongue.

Things change when Bethy is hired at the Manor as a maid. A scullery-maid, at first, but she impresses the housekeeper with her neat, pretty ways, her little touches and comforts—she whispers to Carver under the covers, later, about how the lord of the Manor saw the posy she left on his breakfast tray and actually _smiled_ ; the first time, they say, since his wife passed—and so she soon finds herself elevated to working Upstairs.

Carver waits at the end of each day by the side gate, now, for Bethany. He sits on the top of the fence and chews on the end of a sheath of last year's winter wheat, and makes a posy. Garden work is hard work, but it’s beautiful, too—he knows what flowers will last and which will wilt, the flowers that will dry nicely and weave together in a braid for his mother’s door. And he knows that Bethy loves bluebells best of all, tied together with some baby’s breath and a bit of twine. A pity they're not in season, yet. 

“They looks just like your eyes,” she often says, letting him affix them to her braid or to the open buttonhole at the top of her maid’s uniform. “Like Da’s eyes.”

Carver never says anything to this. He doesn’t like to talk about their Da, and Bethy knows it. He’s not sure, yet, whether it’s painful to remember he has Malcolm’s eyes. Dead blue eyes in a living boy’s face. Sometimes his mother looks at him and cries, and he knows why, and he wishes his eyes were gold like Bethy’s.

Today her eyes are _especially_ gold. They glint at him from across the field as she comes running, braids unlaced already and her skirts hiked up around her knees, and he would think she was running _from_ something, except that he can hear her laughter from his perch on the fence. He hops down, dusting off his breeches, and twirls today’s posy between thumb and forefinger as she draws near. It’s early spring, still, and he tucks the bundle of snowdrops cradled by butter-yellow crocuses into his jacket pocket as she comes to a stumbling, dusty stop.

“Carver! Carver, you’ll never guess what happened today!”

“I s’pose I won’t,” he agrees amiably. “So you’d best tell me then, yeah?”

“I’ve _met him_. Martha needed my help with some things upstairs, and there was crying and—I’ve _seen_ him, Carv! The little boy the other servants talk about, Lord Alexius’ son. Though he’s not _little_ , really, I don’t think he’s really much younger than we are.”

Carver makes appropriate noises of interest, trying to hide his own brewing enthusiasm. He holds the gate open for his sister and latches it shut behind them as they make the walk together down the lane to their mother’s house. “And does he really have a hunchback, like they say?”

“Carver! I thought you didn’t pay attention to the gossip.”

“I have ears,” he protests. “I _hear_ things. Doesn’t mean I believe them. Or pass them on.”

“Well the answer is no, anyway. He hasn’t a hunchback. He can’t walk, though,” she adds, more subdued now. She laces her arm with his, and he lets her, feeling sentimental in the chilly spring gloaming. “He was sick for a very long time and spent so long in bed, he doesn’t remember how.”

“Well then someone should teach him!” Carver exclaims, outraged—and though he can’t quite reconcile it, he feels very strongly, and very suddenly, that that _someone_ should be him.

“Martha said it’s not that simple,” Bethany says with the air of someone repeating what she has been told, quite sternly, by an elder. “ _I_ think he could walk, if he really wanted to.”

“Does he not want to?” He cannot fathom this. Even now, when the snow is still clinging in fringes to the walls and hollows of the garden, and they wake early each morning to a thick blanket of frost on the moor, he would rather be striding about in the out-of-doors, crisping through the frozen heather and puffing out great joyous plumes of breath into the cold air, than doing almost anything else. Even gardening, though he doesn’t mind that.

“I’m not sure.” Bethany is quiet for a bit, and they crest the hill. Down in the shallow valley is their mother’s cottage, smoke rising from the chimney, and Fenris has beat them home—he’s a small, slender shape in the garden, hoeing at the hard earth to prepare for sowing. “I think… I think he’s too sad to try.”

“Too… sad?” Carver wants to stop walking, but Bethany’s momentum and her arm linked with his keep him going. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Well wouldn’t you be, if your mother had died? And you had had the same illness, but you lived and she didn’t?”

“I _know_ what it’s like,” he says through gritted teeth, though he wishes sorely he didn’t have to. “And I didn’t lay in bed all day and mope about it.”

“ _Carver_.” Her grip on his arm grows sharp and painful for an instant, and then she withdraws, face drawn up tight in anger. “You shouldn’t say things like that. You didn’t… you didn’t see him.”

“And what if I had?”

“Then maybe you would feel sorry for him, instead of being such a… such a _boor_.”

“Did you learn that word in the kitchens?” Carver asks sharply, rankled by her high-and-mighty attitude. “Nevermind. I’m hungry and tired, and I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

He walks ahead, big long strides that eat up the dirt track. An unfair advantage, perhaps, but he doesn’t feel like listening to Bethy’s indignant huffing all the way down the hill. And he doesn’t want to admit, even inadvertently, that he is… intrigued by the boy in the mansion.

He thinks on it at dinner, barely contributing to the conversation—but he is a quiet boy by nature, sometimes called taciturn by his fellows, and it goes unremarked. He escapes afterward, completing his chores swiftly before slipping out into the dark. It isn’t that late, really, but summer is still a long ways off and the sun sets early, though a faint violet haze lingers on the horizon and tinges the grey, rolling moors with a silvery light.

 _I **am** a boor_ , he thinks reluctantly, slowing his pace as he treads the familiar trails. Trails no one but him would recognize. Animal tracks and crossings, a veritable highway if one knows where to look.  _I shall have to apologize to Bethy, later._

Eventually he comes to a little brook cutting its way through the heather. He perches on the bank, squatting to keep his breeches out of the mud, and he hikes his sweater closer around his rangy frame. He’s been shooting up like a weed of late, and his mother is having trouble keeping him in clothes. He hates it—hates that she has to scrimp and save and patch every last hole before giving in and going to the clothier in town more than half an hour’s ride from their little cottage. He doesn’t _mind_ wearing rags come summer—as long as she can let the seams out in his shoulders, he’ll roll up his sleeves and tuck his trousers into his boots and it doesn’t _matter_.

Winter is harder. The coat he left behind is popping seams faster than she can mend them, and his sweater is too short in the arms. She’s already added a few inches onto the ends, but the yarn is a slightly different weight and color, and it’s obvious to anyone that he’s dressed like a pauper. They _are_ paupers, he supposes. Somehow it never seemed a shameful thing before.

When the moon comes up and there’s enough light to find his way home by, he leaves the bank. He can see the flickering lights of his mother’s cottage, and higher up beyond, on the hill, the mansion. Only a few windows are bright with life—some on the lower floors, and one high up, far to the end of the west wing where the family’s quarters are. Perhaps it’s Lord Alexius in his study, hunched over his books and papers and scowling myopically at the world. Or maybe it’s the boy in his bed, alone, with a candle lit to keep out the dark.

He can’t even remember ever hearing his name. Maybe Bethy will know, as she seems to know everything about everyone nowadays. But when he gets back to the cottage, Bethany is engrossed in her mending and she makes a point not to look at him when he comes in, and he knows she’s still angry. He casts about for some way to make amends—he can’t apologize aloud, not in front of their mother, who will want to know every detail of their disagreement, and it’s silly perhaps but he can’t help feeling that she wouldn’t _approve_ , exactly, of their interest in the Alexius boy.

He takes off his shoes and puts them neatly by the door, and goes to fetch his coat to check it over for tears, and that’s when he remembers the posy. It’s a bit wilted and crushed, now, from sitting in his jacket pocket all this time, but it’s pretty all the same. And when he leaves it quietly at the table beside Bethy’s work, he thinks he sees her smile, just a little.

The door opens and slams shut again, letting in a cold draught of air, and Fenris steps in, standing just on the mat with his hat pulled low over his pale hair. “Mistress Hawke,” he says to their mother, with a stiff nod. “I’ll be going on up to the house, now.”

“Thank you, my dear. Carver, I know you just came in, but would you walk Master Fenris up the hill? It’s so very dark without a light.”

“Yes, Mum.” He shrugs on his coat and finds his shoes and a lantern, and off they go.

Fenris isn’t much for talking, which Carver appreciates—neither is he. The older lad is one of the Lord’s stablehands, and he worked under his father when Malcolm was alive. In the years since, he has become a fixture at the Hawke residence, helping with their few livestock and keeping the shed and cottage in good repair. He’s part of the family, in a strange sort of way—the older brother Carver never had.

He seems him as far as the stables, and they part with a nod and a quiet word. Carver turns to go, and stops. The lit window he’d espied earlier still flickers with warmth, but now there is a slim silhouette darkening the glass. As he watches, the figure seems to turn away, and then the light goes out. Shrugging his jacket higher on his shoulders, he grips the lantern harder and turns his feet toward home.

//

Carver doesn’t think about the bedridden boy again for a few days. Mr Rutherford keeps him busy running to and fro, preparing the gardens for spring—this needs pruning, and that wall needs repair, and these tools must be taken to the ferrier for sharpening. He works like a dog and sleeps like the dead, and by the end of the week he might have forgotten the boy entirely were it not for the key.

He finds it on his way to the gate after the end of a long day. Bethany has long since left without him, and all he can think of is his grumbling belly and the stew he hopes will be warm and waiting for him when he gets home. The sun is very nearly at the horizon, but he can’t see it—his head droops and his nose is pointed toward the ground as he daydreams about fresh bread and soft, tender beef—and just as it touches the distant gray hills something glints at him out of the grass.

He stoops on instinct and scoops it up without stopping to see what it is, and then it’s in his hand, innocuous and a little rusty, and cold against his palm. An old skeleton key that looks as if it’s seen a few hard winters. There’s hardly any glister left, but when he rubs his thumb against the stem it shines a little brighter.

But he’s still hungry, and with the sun gone the day’s chill has turned to downright _cold_ , so he puts it in the pocket of his breeches and forgets about it until after dinner, when he’s undressing for bed. There’s a little _clink_ as it hits the floor, and he bends swiftly to retrieve it, turning it over between his fingers. What lock does it belong to? And who lost it—or, perhaps, threw it away?

He dreams that night of a labyrinth. Tall brick walls wind to and fro, covered in ivy, but no matter which turn he takes, there are no doors by which to escape. And faintly, now and then, he can hear the sound of someone crying through the walls.

He wakes very early the next morning, dry-eyed and stiff. There’s a little while yet before he needs to be up, but he knows he won’t be able to go back to sleep, so he dresses in the dark and slips out with a bit of last night’s bread for his breakfast. Everything is grey and still as he walks up the hill and lets himself in the back gate—not even the hostlers are out of their beds yet. He reckons Master Rutherford is still at his breakfast in his own little bachelor cot at the edge of the property. Which is perfect, because Carver doesn’t really feel like working quite yet.

He munches as he walks, skirting the brick wall that borders the gardens and letting the breaking day wash over him in stages. The bread is almost gone when he spies the robin. It’s hopping to and fro in the grass, not too far from where he found the key the day before. It’s a very slight weight in the breast pocket of his coat. He wonders, a bit absurdly, if the bird knows it’s missing.

In some odd sort of apology, Carver tosses a few crumbs onto the grass. The robin flutters away, at first, landing some distance away and staring at him out of one beady eye. Then, when Carver only leans against the ivy-covered wall to watch, it hops forward until it can peck at the meager gift.

“Isn’t it a bit early for you, little master?” he asks quietly, fingering the last few bites of bread into smaller pieces. “It’s barely even March. You’ll have quite a time digging worms up this time of year.”

The robin simply looks at him, as if to say, _Do you have any more?_

“It’s your lucky day, serrah.” He casts more crumbs and gets down on his haunches to watch.

In no time at all, the robin is close enough to touch—and then, in a stroke of boldness, it hops into his hand and nips at the remaining crumbs there. Carver is charmed, though not entirely surprised. He’s not sure why, but animals seem to like him. Perhaps it’s his quiet, undemanding nature—he’s been known to sit perfectly still on the moor and patiently for over an hour, waiting for a rabbit to creep ever closer for the treats he’d brought from the garden.

Now that he’s had his fill, Carver expects the robin to flit off again, but it stays, hopping along his open hand and staring at everything with its button-black eyes. Moving carefully, Carver fishes in his pocket with his other hand and produces the key. The bird observes this procedure with intense interest but makes no move to fly away.

“What do you think, friend? D’you know where this belongs?”

He isn’t _really_ expecting an answer—how could he? But then the robin takes off, its negligible weight leaving his hand and flitting across the grassy path to the ivy-covered wall. There it lands in the frosty dirt, pecking furiously at the ground. Carver stares at the wall. It reminds him disturbingly of his dream the night before, the tall brick walls with their cloaks of ivy, and a distinct chill works down his spine.

Or perhaps that’s the breeze, stirring his hair where it lies untidily across his forehead. Across the way, the ivy rustles, and he thinks he catches a glimpse of tarnished gold behind the green. Heart thudding hard in his chest, he gets up and goes to the wall.

The ivy clings stubbornly to the brick, but when he wafts his hand through it, the mat lifts away enough to expose an aged wooden door beneath. He licks his lips and looks around for the robin, but it fled while his attention was elsewhere, and there’s no telling how he might find it again. He whispers a quiet _thank-you_ , regardless, and tries the latch. It’s locked, of course, but there’s a keyhole just below it, terribly inviting. His fingers itch just to look at it. He drops to his knees instead and peers through.

Beyond the ivy-covered walls is… grey. Just grey. The grass is still dead and brown from winter, and he can see scraps of snow piled up under grey-trunked trees and under a grey wrought-iron bench. An abandoned garden. Lost? Forgotten? He fumbles the key in the lock, taking great care for the rusty tumblers, but the door responds without much effort and it swings inward slowly with a long, drawn-out complaint from the hinges. Carver brushes aside the ivy and steps inside, holding his breath.

It is very, very still in the garden. No creature moves, nor bird sings, and the walls are high enough on all four sides that there’s no wind. He takes a step, and desiccated leaves whisper underfoot, years and years of them piled high in the withered beds and against the walls where they were never raked.

It’s the saddest thing Carver has ever seen.

He isn’t sure whether to stay or go—it almost seems rude to disturb the peace of this place, like trespassing over a grave without paying respects, but he will be missed soon if he does not report to Mr Rutherford. In the end he gives a short, awkward jerk of his head, not quite a bow, and turns to go. But a flash of color catches his eye. When he bends to brush away the leaves clustered near the door, he is amazed to discover a hearty cluster of crocuses popping up from the ground.

He turns, suddenly alight with curiosity. Where else have bulbs endured, year after lonely year, only to resurface each time they come in season? Perhaps this garden is not as dead as it appears.

But he’s out of time. He clears away the leaves from the patch at his feet, giving the tender shoots some room to breathe, and slips out of the garden in a swathe of ivy. The door shut and locked again, and the greenery resettled, it doesn’t even look like a door is there at all. He pockets and key and heads toward the greenhouse, head buzzing with ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Hawke in this story, I couldn't figure out where to make them fit! This is in response to a few different prompts on my [tumblr](erebones.tumblr.com). 
> 
> I'm playing around a little bit with character designations here. Carver is both Mary Lennox and Dickon, Bethy is a little bit of Martha and Mary (although Martha does appear in this story as a slightly tweaked version), and Felix, as you will see, is both Colin and Mary as well. Leandra, of course, is Susan Sowerby, Cullen is Ben Weatherstaff, and Fenris is a little bit of Dickon and mostly just himself. And Alexius is Mr. Craven.
> 
> This AU has been biting at my heels for a little while now, and then I found [this](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/149196484540/gingerthon-cavillfan-henry-cavill-en-i) delightful gifset on tumblr that just screamed Secret Garden!Carver to me, and so I began. (I'm still working on the ghost au, if anyone's curious, but this story demanded an immediate out.) Hope you enjoy!


	2. the boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver meets the boy in the Manor.

He takes his lunch to the garden with him, along with a rake he smuggles out of the greenhouse. He’ll return it, eventually—and it was one of the bent ones, anyway, the prongs all mangled, so it won’t be missed. He wolfs down his food and spends the rest of the hour raking. It’s slow going, at first, but by the end of his break he has several clusters of leaves ready to be tossed over the fence and a neat plot of land that, while grey and drab but for a few spots of early spring color, is a sight tidier than it had been before. 

Beth is waiting for him at the gate when he finishes his work for the day. Carver touches the posy tucked in his front pocket, harvested from the secret garden at lunch, and gives it to her as she skips up the lane to meet him. 

“Thank you, Carver. Apology accepted.” She smirks at him, knowing, but he doesn’t mind. One less awkward confession that he has to make. “Listen, I have a… favor to ask.”

“What sort of favor?” he asks warily as she captures his arm for the walk home. 

“I need your help with Felix.”

Carver draws a blank. “With who?”

“With—oh, for heaven’s sake. All this talk about him and you’ve never heard his  _ name _ . Felix, Lord Alexius’ son. He’s so desperately sad with nothing to do all day but read and nowhere to go but his own room, and so I asked Martha—the head maid, you know—that if someone strong could  _ carry  _ Felix outside, he could sit in the garden and enjoy the weather.”

“It would be a bit cold for him, still,” Carver says doubtfully. “He’s still an invalid, isn’t he?”

“Well he isn’t sick anymore, if that’s what you mean. He just can’t walk. He  _ is  _ quite thin, though, we shall have to make sure to bring plenty of blankets.”

Carver thinks of his garden, and the little project he’s concocted to restore it, and feels a stab of jealousy. But Bethy doesn’t know about the garden, not yet—and neither, likely, does Felix. He can keep it for his own, for now. 

“All right. But you’ll have to ask Mr Rutherford first, I can’t shirk my duties without leave.”

“Martha will arrange everything,” Bethany announces decidedly, and that, it seems, is that. 

The next day is a week-end, and Carver spends it helping Fenris with spring chores around the cottage—repairing a part of the roof that was starting to sag, laying fresh paving stones out front, and taking inventory of the seeds and roots they had for the season’s planting. And whenever he has a spare moment, he slips away to the garden. 

By the time Monday rolls around, most of the dead stuff has been pulled out of the beds and he’s trimmed away much of the rambling ivy that was choking the beautiful stand of ash-poplars and the old, spreading oak that holds court in the corner of the garden. He enlists Fenris’ help in hauling the stuff off to be burned, and Fenris, as usual, says nothing about it. Carver knows without even having to ask that Fenris will keep his secret garden a secret.

When he presents himself to Mr Rutherford after lunch for his afternoon assignments, he finds himself pulled aside while the other two gardeners are sent on their way. He holds himself stiff like a soldier at attention, nervous that Fenris said something after all until he remembers, quite suddenly, Bethy’s request.

“I’ve been asked to allow you the last few hours off to attend Master Felix,” Rutherford says—not gruffly or irritably, as Carver had feared, but with an air of bemused approval. “You work hard and pull more than your weight, Hawke, so I see no difficulty in allowing it. And I think it will be good for the boy to have someone his own age to play with.” If he notices the way Carver bristles at the word  _ play _ , he doesn’t show it. “Finish up in the front beds with the trimming, and then you may be released.”

“Yes sir,” Carver says smartly, and escapes. 

He does as he’s asked and replaces all his tools after, trying his best to wipe dirt from his face and smooth the frayed edges of his jumper. A glimpse in the greenhouse glass shows a smudge of black on his cheek and his hair all a-tumble on his head, so he smooths it down as best he can and licks his thumb to rub his cheek until it’s bright pink and clean, and heads for the house. 

He realizes too late he isn’t really sure where to go. Making his best guess, he goes to the kitchens—mostly empty at this time of day, but for the cook and her scullery maids—and Beth is there waiting for him with Martha. He’s met Martha a few times, and isn’t ashamed to say he’s a little bit afraid of her. As head maid, she falls just short of the housekeeper. Carver knows his place in the household, and it’s very far below her—below even Bethany, who has quickly proven herself as an invaluable member of the staff. But she doesn’t look down on his dirty wrists and untucked shirt, only welcomes him with a short, warm smile and leads them upstairs. 

Carver is afraid to breathe. Everything is so quiet and clean—with every step of his feet on the plush runner carpet he fears for the clumps of dirt he must surely be leaving behind. Even Bethany is wearing thin cloth slippers that make no sound as they traverse the long, stately hallways. Carver recalls belatedly seeing her tuck them into her apron pockets to walk home, wearing instead her cloddish overboots, and he feels like… well, like a  _ boor  _ for daring to enter the grandiosity of this place without a change of clothes. 

They take a turn, suddenly, and then up a very short flight of stairs with a door at the end of it. Martha knocks once and lets herself in. Bethany pops in behind her, a little starched-and-pressed shadow, and Carver lurks in behind, looking around. It’s a sitting-room, sort of, with tall windows and soft green walls papered with jungle animals he’s only seen in his father’s dusty old encyclopedia britannica. There is a closed white door on either side of the room, and a fireplace, and a bookshelf stuffed to the brim that goes all the way to the ceiling. Carver gapes at it, a bit, as Martha goes to the door on the right and knocks again, once like before, and enters the room. 

“Master Felix, I’ve brought visitors, just like I promised.”

This room is white and sterile and reminds Carver instantly of the small white doctor’s office his mum had taken him to when he was five and caught the whooping cough. There are windows, but the curtains are drawn shut and the entire place is spotless but still manages to smell of must and the old sort of things that should be put away in storage. 

There’s a desk and another bookshelf and a wardrobe and things, but the central feature of the room is the bed. It’s a great massive four-poster that must at least be the size of his mum’s kitchen, with billowing white drapes hanging down from the canopy overhead. The bedding is white, too, and enormously thick—the little fireplace is well stoked and crackling merrily, and already Carver is sweating lightly under his jacket and jumper. But he’s not thinking about that now, because there’s a boy in the bed. 

A boy Carver’s age, perhaps, except that he’s so dwarfed by the bed and the mass of pillows propping him up like a puppet that he looks hardly older than twelve or thirteen. His ears are too big for his head—so are his eyes, wide and dark and staring very intently at his visitors, and shadowed with sleeplessness even though Carver can’t imagine he does anything  _ but  _ sleep, with a bed like that. If Carver had a bed like that he’d never get out of it. He’s wearing a nice white nightshirt and a silken dressing-gown, and his hair is shorn close to his skull, which does nothing to alleviate his sickly appearance. And sickly he certainly is—though his eyes are dark and focused, his skin is ashen and sallow, his cheeks a little too hollow for a boy who’s been waited on hand and foot for his entire life. Carver finds, unexpectedly, that he feels sorry for him. 

“I’ll just leave you to make introductions,” Martha says after checking the fire and the tuck of the bedclothes. She nods to Carver on the way out, and bustles off. 

The room is very quiet for precisely as long as it takes for Bethany to find her voice. “Hello again, Felix. I’ve brought my brother to meet you. This is Carver, who I’ve told you about. Carver, this is Felix.”

She stands by the bed and stares at him, shouting at him with her eyes, and he shuffles over with his cap in his hands to give a short bow. “Er. Hullo.”

“It’s very nice to meet you,” Felix says, and his voice sounds like an old leaf skittering along a dusty lane. “I’ve heard the most wonderful things about you from Miss Bethany.”

“Have you?” he blurts, in spite of himself. He looks at Bethany, who is trying very hard not to smile. “I can’t imagine half of them are true.”

“I may have edited one or two for effect,” she says demurely, hands folded in front of her apron. 

“I’m sure that isn’t so,” Felix says, perfectly polite. He coughs slightly into a handkerchief pulled from his sleeve, and Carver shifts on his feet. “Forgive me.”

Restless, Carver looks again to the heavy drapes. The fire seems to taunt him with its leaping, flickering light, and he can feel a trickle of sweat move slowly down his back beneath his shirt. Hang propriety, he didn’t come here to sweat to death. “Don’t you ever have the windows open? It’s quite warm today, you know, for March.”

“Is it?” Felix inquires faintly. “I’m not allowed to have them open, I’m afraid, the doctor says it’s dangerous for someone in my condition.”

“Right. Bet it was some fussy big city doctor, right? Charges a fortune to bleed you and tell you you’re on the verge of death because you’ve got a cough?” He moves to the window and flings the shade wide while Bethany sighs. 

“Carver, there’s no need for dramatics…”

“No, it’s all right.” Felix sounds… amused, actually, and a little dumbfounded. “I actually open the windows at night sometimes, when I’m feeling up to it. I close them again after a bit,” he adds quickly, apparently sensing that Bethany is on the cusp of a lecture. 

The latch  _ is  _ rather loose, when Carver finds it. It makes a neat, smooth  _ snick _ sort of sound, and then he hauls up the frame and it sits wide open and yawning on its pulley ropes, letting in a great gust of brisk spring chill. He lets it blow in his face, exhaling into it with relief. “There. That’s more like it.” He turns around, and he fancies Felix looks a little better already. “Would you like to go out?”

The other boy stares out the window, head craned around for the best view. The longing in his face is almost enough to make Carver weep. But he only says, demurely, “If you think it would be all right.”

“We won’t get in trouble?” Bethany asks, though she’s already drifting toward the wardrobe—for a change of clothes for Felix, presumably. 

“No,” he says decidedly, with a little determined wrinkle in between his eyes. “Martha said it would be fine, and Father doesn’t really care either way.”

“Don’t say that,” Bethany murmurs, but Felix shakes his head. 

“He never visits me, so he shouldn’t be  _ allowed  _ to care.”

“Why not?” Carver asks, dumbfounded. “You’re bleeding  _ alive _ , aren’t you? I would think he’d be grateful.”

“Carver!” Bethany snaps in warning.

“No, he’s right. And he is, I think. Shouldn’t he be?” He looks anxious now, and Carver regrets saying anything at all. 

“I’m sure he is,” he says, fumbling over the platitude, and then Beth shoves a bundle of clothing into his arms. “Erm. What’s this for?”

“For Felix, silly. Unless he wants a girl helping him with his trousers, and then I can do it.”

Felix is blushing and staring at the coverlet when Carver turns to look at him. “Martha usually does it,” he says, so softly Carver can barely hear him. “I—I don’t mind, if Carver doesn’t.”

“Sure I don’t,” he says stoutly. “Go on and wait in the parlor, Bethy—and fetch some blankets, while you’re at it. Er, please,” he adds when she levels him a  _ look _ . “Right then,” he says after the door has snicked shut softly behind her. “How does this work?”

Felix’s lips twitch, seemingly in spite of himself. “I can do my shirt and things, but I’ll need help with my trousers.” He pushes back the covers and levers his legs over one at a time with his hands, until they dangle off the side of the bed. His dressing gown is rumpled around his waist, and his legs poke out of his night shirt all bony and slim, with incongruously large feet at the end of them. Or maybe not incongruous, considering the size of his ears, but Carver holds his tongue and busies himself sorting out the fresh clothing while Felix struggles out of his sleepwear. Or… daywear. Loungewear? 

“Shirt, please,” Felix says patiently, snapping him out of his circular thoughts. He passes it over, then the sweater and the schoolboy blazer. Both look little used, and hang a bit loosely on his frame. Bethy also retrieved a coat and a thick scarf, but Felix sticks out his feet a little and so Carver kneels down to pull on the long wool socks and trousers. 

“How d’you want me to…”

“Just get them around my ankles, and then help me stand and I can do the rest.”

Carver does, trying to pretend his ears aren’t red as cherries in summer. When he helps Felix off the bed and holds him ‘round the waist to keep him upright, he feels painfully thin even through his clothes, like he’s growing upward but not out. Carver looks down at the floor. Felix’s hands, where they fasten his trousers, are dainty and quick, much smaller than his feet and ears would suggest, and for some reason it makes him blush harder. 

“There,” Felix says, more cheerfully than warranted. “All finished.”

And Carver makes the mistake of stepping back. Felix’s eyes fly wide in alarm as he lets go, and he pitches forward, back into Carver’s arms. If Carver wasn’t blushing before,  _ now  _ he’s aflame. “I’m—I’m so sorry, m’lord, I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking, I…”

“Please. It’s fine, I promise you.” Felix is blushing too, eyes averted unhappily, and Carver curses himself for his foolishness. “And for the love, don’t call me  _ my lord _ . That’s my father.” He makes a face at the carpet. “I’m just Felix.”

“Right then, just Felix. Would it be best if I carried you? I’m told I have very strong arms,” he adds quickly, before Felix can grow any more embarrassed. To his credit, it does the trick. Felix gives a little laugh—half-hearted, perhaps, but there—and nods assent. 

After that, it’s easy. Carver ignores any lingering awkwardness and carries Felix bridal style through the house and out the back door to the gardens, a frighteningly easy task for how little he weighs, and Bethany follows with blankets and a book. Martha peeps out the window at them as they go, and after they’re settled on the lawn near the spring bulb patch, already bursting with brave, tremulous color, she comes out with a tea tray and a knit hat for Felix’s bare head. 

“She fusses over me so,” he mutters when she leaves, somewhere between exasperated and grateful. 

“She reminds me of our mother, sometimes,” Bethany says wryly. “Always looking to make sure all her little ducklings are walking in a row.”

“Have you any other family?” Felix inquires, wistful. 

“Just Fenris,” Carver says, “and he’s not really family.”

“As good as,” Bethy interjects. “He works with the horses—very good with animals, he is. And he helps around the house quite a bit, when he can. He started when our father died, and never really stopped.”

“Oh.” He bites his lower lip briefly, as if debating, teacup held snug against his bundled-up chest. “I’m sorry to hear about your father.”

“That’s all right,” she says, gently. “It was a long time ago.”

Carver stares at his tea in silence. It  _ was  _ a long time ago, he supposes. Six years, now. Strange how the time passes so quickly, and yet not at all—most days he would swear he was only ten years old again, running wild over the moor as carefree as a… as a little robin redbreast. Carver makes a little noise of surprise and sits up. Surely it can’t be the same one?

“What is it?” Felix asks, and then he sees the bird, staring at them from just a few feet away. “Oh,” he says again, quieter this time, “do you think it will come closer?”

“Probably. Hold very still.” Carver leans over to the tea tray and plucks up a biscuit, small and crisp and tasting of vanilla. He crumbles a bit into his hand and tosses it out onto the grass. Sure enough, the bird advances without trepidation, as boldly as a tame creature, and pecks at the hard ground until it’s very nearly on the blanket with them. And then, in a quick flutter, it alights on Carver’s shoulder.

Felix’s mouth drops open in a silent  _ O _ , eyes like wide, black marbles. Beside him, Bethany claps her hands with excitement—and that’s enough to break the spell. With a little indignant  _ cheep _ , the robin wings away and disappears into the bare branches of the nearby hedgerow. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, forlorn, but Carver only shakes his head, looking across the gardens to where the robin must have fled. 

“That’s all right. He’ll be back. If not today, tomorrow.”

“D’you really think so?” Felix asks, still caught up in wonderment. “Do you think he might sit on  _ my  _ shoulder?”

“If you’re very patient. And he’s a friendly one, anyway—I’ve met him before, I think.” Carver shakes his eyes away from the distance and returns his attention to their little tea party. “Are you warm enough, Felix?”

“Yes, quite. But don’t worry about me! Tell me more about the bird!”

“He’s a robin redbreast,” Carver tells him, trying not to laugh at his enthusiasm. “And I met him just the other day, coming home from the day’s work…”


	3. the ballroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver teaches Felix how to dance. Sneaking in another prompt for earlgreyer1 :)

Carver doesn’t tell the whole story. Selfish of him, perhaps, but he isn’t  _ ready _ . Not even ready to tell Bethy. The guilt of it weighs on his mind, day after day, as he labors over lunch and on the week-ends in his garden. She’s used to his lonesome ways and doesn’t pester him about it, until one Sunday afternoon in the middle of April Fenris comes to the cottage with a letter from the Manor addressed to them both. 

“It’s from Felix!” Bethany says delightedly as Carver is putting on his boots. He had been preparing to go to his garden, but stops as she reads the little note. “He asks if we would like to have tea with him in the garden at two o’clock sharp, as he has something to show us.”

Carver tries to find it in himself to be annoyed at the interruption of his plans, but he can’t. The roses on their bower are budding wonderfully on their own, and need no more pruning from him, and the red campion and marigolds are running riot, seeded by birds and other creatures without his guidance. He can leave it lie for just a day, surely. 

They walk up the hill arm in arm, as usual, and on the way Carver plucks wild cornflower and aster, some for Bethy’s hair and some for the tea table as a gift to their host. When they arrive, Felix is in his wheelchair, which he hates, a light blanket over his legs and his eyes bright as he directs Martha in setting up the tea table. It looks less like tea and more like lunch, to Carver’s mind, with meat pasties and a loaf of new bread and pots of relish and jellied ham, just to name a few, but his hollow belly isn’t complaining. 

“You’re here!” Felix says happily when they draw near. “Please, sit. Thank you Martha, that will be all.”

Carver twitches a little at the high and mighty mannerism, but lets it go, pulling out Bethy’s seat before taking his own. Felix  _ is  _ a little lord, however much he tries to deny it. 

“What did you have to show us?” Bethany asks immediately, before the tea is even poured. 

“After,” he says, very nearly sounding  _ shy _ , and though Carver’s curiosity is piqued he turns his attention to the food. 

When the tea has been demolished, Felix clears his throat and says, with utmost politeness, “Carver, would you mind pushing me into the gardens? I want this to be private.”

“Um. Yeah sure, of course.” He exchanges a look with Bethany, but she looks as clueless as he.

It’s a beautiful day for it, at least. It’s warm enough that Carver’s just in his shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled back neatly to the elbow and his new suspenders holding up his summer trousers—a little treat from his mother for their birthday the week before. After a while he kicks off his shoes, leaving them out of sight beneath a hedgerow—Felix and Bethany are quick to follow his lead—and he curls his toes in the tender spring grass as he walks. 

He is mostly quiet, letting Beth and Felix chatter away contentedly, and he finds himself reminiscing on the Felix he first met just over a month ago—the Felix he knows now seems a wholly different boy in comparison. His hair is still kept very short and tidy, but his face has filled out and seems to fit his ears a little better, and so has the rest of him, turning him from a gaunt child into a sturdy boy who is swiftly growing into a man. His legs are still terribly slim and underdeveloped, but he can stand on his own for longer, and can dress himself with only a little bit of help on Carver’s part—mostly the kind that involves acting like a post for Felix to lean against while he juggles his trousers and squawks when he loses his balance. 

He doesn’t mean to, but his feet somehow point them toward the garden.  _ His  _ garden. The key feels like a heavy coal in his pocket, burning through his trousers to touch his thigh with its scalding reproach. He’s  _ meant _ to tell them, many times over, but the words won’t come. Not even to Bethany. It feels dirty, somehow—he can’t think of a single thing he’s ever kept from her that he could have shared instead. They share  _ everything _ . But not this. 

“This is good,” Felix says suddenly, breaking Carver out of his maudlin thoughts. He stops the wheelchair and looks around. They’re only a few yards away from the garden, ensconced between the ivy-cloaked wall on one side and the low brick boundary on the other. His heart slams frantically against his chest—what if Felix wants to show them the  _ garden _ ? What if Carver has trespassed, somehow, and is about to lose Felix’s friendship?

“Take this, please.” Felix passes his blanket over to Bethany, who’s watching the scene unfold with wide eyes. Carver draws in a deep breath and tries to get his thoughts together as Felix braces himself on the arms of the chair and sits forward.

“Felix, are you sure about this?”

“Don’t worry, Bethy. I’ve been practicing.” He winks, and then he’s up out of the chair and standing. Carver has seen him stand before, so it’s not entirely new to him, but then Felix  _ walks _ . Very slow, hands held out a little ways from his sides, he takes one, two, three steps until he’s well away from the chair and standing in the middle of the lane with nothing to support him. Bethany clutches the blanket to her chest and covers her mouth with one hand. 

“ _ Felix _ .”

“What do you think?” He turns, grinning triumphantly. And then he wavers, just a bit—his smile slips, and Carver darts in beside him to let him grip his arm. 

“You’re marvelous,” he blurts, letting Felix steady himself without any help from Carver. “How long have you been working on this?”

“Just a few weeks. It’s slow progress.” He makes a face, glaring down at his knobbly knees where they poke out from under his short breeches. “I’ve fallen down a lot.”

“Haven’t you anyone to help you?” Bethany asks, aggrieved. 

“No, and I don’t want help. I mean—not from  _ them _ . They’d just tell me to get back into bed, because the doctor said I’d never walk again. But I thought—well, you’ve been such good friends to me, and I thought that maybe… you would help me?”

He means the both of them, but he’s looking up at Carver as he says it, eyes terribly dark and earnest. Carver nods slowly. “Of course we will.”

“But I want it to be a surprise. A… a secret. For my father.” Felix turns slightly pink and looks away. “I want to walk straight into his office one day, and maybe  _ then  _ he’ll pay attention to me.”

Bethany says nothing, but looks at Carver meaningfully.  _ Say something. _

“Listen,” he says suddenly, on impulse, “I’ve got something to show you, too. Both of you. But you can’t breathe a word of it to anyone, okay? Swear.”

“I swear,” Felix says hastily, eyes bright again with fervent curiosity. Bethany nods vigorous agreement. 

“Okay. It’s just a few steps this way. C’mon.”

Walking close, his arm out for Felix to grab whenever he needs it, Carver leads them along the wall, hand extended to brush through the ivy like a comb through a maiden’s long hair. When he feels the wooden frame of the door he stops. “All right. Just here.” He fishes the key from his pocket and pulls aside the verdant curtain. There are twin gasps from Felix and Bethany, and Felix grips his arm a little tighter. 

“What is this? How did you find it?”

“It’s a garden, behind the wall. Master Robin showed me.” The key fits perfectly in the lock, as it always does. “I’ve been tending it. You’ll see.”

And the door swings open. 

The garden, much like Felix, is a world of difference from when Carver first met it. The grass is a brilliant emerald, and pale buds cluster thickly on the ash and oak trees like lacy spring shawls. The rambling roses are still thick with last year’s hips, but new leaves are popping out all along their vines and crawling up the bower like a bride’s veil. Beneath the bower is the wrought-iron bench, which Carver scraped free of rust and made over fresh with a bit of paint left from whitewashing the front gates, and an old discarded birdbath sits in a corner, full to the brim with rainwater and clustered with lily bulbs he scavenged from one of the ornamental ponds on the grounds. And everywhere, in every bed and spilling over the edges unchecked, are flowers. Ferns in the shade, spiny little shrubs with tiny white flowers, and bluebells and sorrel and hollyhock growing tall in the sun; coxcomb, delphinium, a giant sun-yellow explosion of forsythia in the back corner, and a single tiny apple tree flecked with pink, about waist-high, uncovered when Carver had been digging out the accumulated deadfall along the borders. And more to come, Carver knows, when spring turns over and summer begins in earnest. 

“Oh,” Felix says, faintly, and that seems to be about all he  _ can _ say. Carver puffs out his chest with pride. 

“D’you want to come in?”

They do. 

The rest of the afternoon is something Carver can only describe, privately and with a little bit embarrassment, as magical. After a short rest on the bench to recover himself, Felix insists on walking around the garden, looking at everything and exclaiming over and over at how beautiful everything is. Carver tries, at first, to downplay his involvement, but Bethany draws him out and Felix showers him with compliments, and so he subsists into happy, buzzing contentment, pink all the way to his ears. 

When Felix tires, sooner than he’d like, Bethany spreads out the blanket and Carver sits with him, watching as she goes to every corner of the garden—wherever Felix directs—to bring him  _ specimens.  _ Flowers, mostly, or leaves or sprigs of budding growth, and once a toad she uncovers at the base of the birdbath. She returns it gently, and is off again on the next quest. 

When dark begins to fall and Carver grows restless, worried that they’ll be discovered, Felix reluctantly returns to his wheelchair and Bethany locks the door, following them along back to the house. Martha is there waiting for them, her plain mouth marred with disapproval—but Felix is so clearly happy, healthier than he has been in a long time and clamoring for his dinner, that she says not a word and simply makes polite farewells when Carver and Bethany leave their friend to her care. 

Bethany berates him on the way home. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! All this time and you never breathed a word!”

Carver hunches his shoulders to his ears and says nothing. Bethany grabs his hand.

“Oh, don’t look like that. I’m… a bit impressed, actually. You have the hardest time keeping secrets from me.”

His mouth twitches in a smile. “You never suspected?”

“Well I thought  _ something _ was going on. But I was afraid it was something to do with… a certain stablehand.” She blushes and Carver tries not to choke. 

“ _ Fenris _ ? Bethy, he’s  _ old _ !”

“He’s not yet twenty,” she returns demurely, but she looks a little bit relieved nonetheless. Carver wonders, with a pang of confused outrage, whether  _ she _ has her eye on Fenris, but it’s too much to contemplate all at once so he drops the subject. Bethany seems grateful, and turns instead to talk of the garden. 

It’s decided right away that the garden is the perfect place to teach Felix to walk. It’s secluded from the rest of the estate, and far enough from the Manor that no one will be able to hear their voices and laughter, leaving them free to entertain themselves as they please. Weekends are especially wonderful. Carver and Bethany walk up after breakfast and wheel Felix obediently through the yard; there’s hardly anyone about, and it’s easy to find their way to the back corners and into their garden. 

And it really is  _ their _ garden, now. Carver finds that any lingering jealousy has melted away, and in fact he’s grateful for the help. When Felix’s legs grow weary he likes to sit and weed along the beds or help Carver with transplanting, and Bethany’s strong arms are useful for pruning and climbing the trees to cut away dead wood before it falls. 

But of course, it’s spring, and it rains more often than they would like. Sometimes they go out anyway, bundled up in oilskin coats from Martha and ready at a moment’s notice to turn tail should the light mist turn ugly. But sometimes, like today, they must stay inside. 

“It isn’t fair,” Felix sighs, staring out the window of what Martha fondly calls their “play-room.” Perhaps it was, once, but now it more resembles a little library, with a writing-desk and shelves piled high with texts on all sorts of subjects. Felix stands beside one of these, perusing the titles while Carver lays on the floor and pretends he isn’t waiting there just in case Felix’s legs give out. It’s happened before, but the mossy floor of their garden is forgiving, and the floorboards with their thin, decorative carpet less so. “I really wanted to go out today—I’m  _ certain _ the climbing roses must be blooming by now.”

“They will still be blooming tomorrow,” Carver says patiently. He feels restless, too, never quite at home in the mausoleum-like house as he is outside, even with no servants around to stare at him and with Felix here to keep company with. Bethany isn’t with them, for a wonder—she had extra duties to see to, and Carver was done a little early, so they aren’t expecting her for a few more hours yet. Felix’s wheelchair is in the corner, abandoned for now, with the little blanket folded up on the seat. Seeing it strikes Carver with an idea, and he pushes himself up to sitting. “This is a tremendous house. Surely there’s somewhere we could go exploring and not be bothered.”

“Carver! You’re brilliant.” His steps to wheelchair are measured and precise, but his entire body is thrumming with excitement to match the thrum of the rain against the windowpanes. He sits and adjusts the blanket across his knees, hiding the way his legs have begun to strengthen and grow sturdy with use. “Just as long as we stay away from my father’s study I suppose we could go anywhere you liked.”

So the rainy afternoon finds them wandering the second floor, the wheels moving soundlessly on the thick carpet and Carver’s shoulder burning with the effort. “I think,” he grits, when they get stuck on a stubborn wrinkle, “you’ve gained weight since we started this.”

“I have,” Felix says apologetically, poking at his stomach, now pleasantly soft instead of sharp and gaunt. “Perhaps I could walk? We haven’t seen anyone, and Bethy says the servants take care of the second floor just before lunch.”

Carver stops pushing and leans against the handles, puffing for breath. “Maybe you could try pushing  _ me  _ instead.” 

They don’t switch places after all, but tuck the wheelchair in a corner behind a tapestry and make their way slowly down the hall, peeking into every room as they pass. Most of them are closed up and boring, all the furniture covered in sheets and thick with dust. Carver thinks it’s a crime that one man should have  _ so much _ and never even so much as  _ look _ at it, but he keeps his indignation to himself. 

Then they turn a corner and find themselves faced with tall double doors edged with curling gilt shapes, the handle of one turned just askew. Felix peeks through the crack and gasps. “Oh, Carver! You have to see this!”

“What?”

The doors stick a bit, but Carver puts his back into it and gets one of them open just enough for the boys to slip through. And it’s… beautiful. A grand room, with a wood floor for dancing, and a closed-up grand piano in the corner, and tall, shuttered windows that promise a blaze of light pouring through on sunny days. Dead chandeliers hang from the ceiling like the bones of strange birds trapped mid-flight, and the walls are painted with beautiful pastoral scenes and inlaid mirrors cradled by more fanciful swoops of gold. 

“A ballroom?” he whispers, amazed—the walls are dusty, true, but the shaded windows have preserved them from fading in the sun, and when Felix walks over to pull the shutters open, the silver-grey light fans over the walls and illuminates the colors as bright as a summer’s day. 

“A salon,” Felix corrects, going to touch the grand piano. It was never covered, and his fingers leave track marks in the dust along the surface. “For small parties and entertaining—not like the ballroom downstairs. I’ve never seen it, but Martha says it’s grand. But this…” He turns to Carver, grinning, and holds out his hands. “Dance with me?”

Carver had started abruptly forward when he held up his arms, ready to dart across the floor and catch him, but Felix isn’t falling. He hesitates, looking around. “I—are you sure? I don’t really know any fancy dances…”

“And I don’t know any dances at all. So we’re even.”

His eyes are so wide and hopeful that Carver doesn’t have the heart to dissuade him. Shrugging, he comes forward and takes Felix’s hands in his. “Um. It’s too bad we don’t have music…”

“I’ll sing something,” Felix offers unexpectedly—and then he  _ does _ . A lilting Irish melody, full of strange words Carver doesn’t recognize, but it’s got a springing, melodious rhythm that’s easy to dance to. 

They go slow at first, stepping to and fro with their hands holding tight and Felix’s eyes pinned to the floor. Carver narrates the steps—“Back, back, and side… um, and spin, I think, but we can wait for that”—and Felix’s voice dwindles to a hum as he concentrates, following along clumsily. But gradually his limbs seem to ease into the new movement, and with one of Carver’s arms wrapped securely around his waist they are able to spin and swirl across the stately floor in a silly, boyish jig. Surely they’re making a mockery of the salon’s dignity, Carver thinks, but his fears are hard to hold onto with Felix’s laughter in his ear and the sweaty warmth of their free hands tangled together. 

“That’s it,” Carver says when Felix unwinds away from him and comes back, grinning, song forgotten—they’re dancing to their own rhythm, now. Purely from instinct, he grips him hard to either side of his waist and lifts him up, spinning in a circle before putting him down again, and though their balance wobbles just a bit, Felix keeps his feet and throws his arms around Carver’s neck for the next round, laughing. 

There’s a sharp  _ bang _ all of a sudden, and they freeze midstep. One of the doors has been thrown open and Martha stands silhouetted there, hands over her mouth. Felix goes very still and Carver follows his lead, not quite sure what to do—and then Martha lets out a little sob and sags against the door frame, fingers tangling in her apron. 

“Master Felix…”

“Please don’t say anything to Father,” Felix blurts out, pulling away from Carver entirely. “It’s going to be a surprise.”

He goes to her, limping only slightly after the exertion of their dance, and Carver hangs back while she embraces him and then scolds him for leaving her out of it. In the end she swears to secrecy and shoos them out, as the salon is due for its monthly scrubdown and she doesn’t need too mischievous boys underfoot while she works. 

“Do you think she’ll really not say anything?” Carver asks as they make their way back down the hall. Felix walks close to the wall, hand out occasionally to brush the heavy green paper as if to be sure it’s still there, head down to watch each step—Carver longs to reach over and steady him, but he refrains, knowing Felix will ask for help if he truly needs it. 

“I think so. I trust Martha more than anyone on earth. Except for you,” he adds with a bright, fleeting smile. “And Bethy, of course.”

“She’ll be quite put out to learn that we went exploring without her.”

“We’ll make it up to her.” He stops walking so Carver stops, too, standing abreast of him and trying to judge how much farther they have to go. “I feel silly asking, but…”

“A little bit longer to where we left your chair,” Carver says plainly. “D’you want a lift?”

Felix huffs. “Well, all right.” But when he puts out his arms and lets Carver pick him up with only a little bit of effort, he puts his head down on his shoulder like a child and hums his little song to himself, a soothing lullaby in Carver’s ear all the way down the hall. 


	4. the miracle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver works a miracle.

Carver can’t remember a spring quite like this one. Every day is filled with sunshine, even the rainy ones—he grows so accustomed to the sound of Felix’s laughter and the lilt of his voice that he can’t remember a time when he wasn’t intimately acquainted with it. Martha says they’re _good for each other_ , whatever that means. All Carver knows is that he smiles more and dreams less, and the dreams he does have are full of light and promise.

His mother, eagle-eyed as ever, notices almost right away. Her daughter has always been quick to smile, tenderhearted to everyone around her, and even the untimely death of her father wasn’t enough to completely dim Bethany’s whimsical spirit. But her son had been hit harder, or at least was slower to recover, and with the advent of summer she hardly recognizes the morose boy he had once been.

“It’s the little lord Felix, Mistress,” Fenris says immediately when asked, his grave expression changing not a whit. “All the house is talking of it. Missus Martha says she’s never seen anything like it—the boys took to each other like fishes to water, and there’ll be no separating them.”

“And what of Lord Alexius?” she asks with some measure of surprise. “Does he have nothing to say about his son spending time with the son of a poor widow?”

“I don’t believe he’s aware, Mistress. He travels quite frequently, and when he’s home, well.” Fenris shrugs his lean shoulders, as expressive as he ever gets, and Leandra’s heart breaks for the lonely boy in the Manor who hardly has a father.

“I see. Thank you, Fenris. I’ll see you tomorrow for dinner.”

“Aye, Mistress.” Fenris nods, tugging deferentially on his forelock, and is gone, a silvery shadow walking up the lane back to the stables.

Leandra says nothing to Carver, not outright. Instead she sends him up to the Manor with little treats for the boys and Bethany, and when the weather turns warm in earnest, she sends along jugs of lemonade and plenty of seed packets for the little vegetable garden Carver claims Felix has in mind. And when Carver finally confesses to the garden they’ve made their own, she eases his mind with her blessing and keeps the garden’s story to herself.

She remembers the death of Lady Alexius, and what a tragedy it was—that just at the turn of her grave illness, she should be killed by a falling branch in her special garden, well. It had been the talk of the countryside, as had Lord Alexius’ reclusiveness immediately following the tragedy. But time quiets most rumors, and the Manor had been reduced to nothing more than a lonely house on a hill with a master who was hardly ever home. Truth be told, Leandra hadn’t even been sure the man’s son had survived. But it wasn’t a ghost was teaching her son to laugh again, of _that_ she was certain.

Unaware of the garden’s history, and encouraged by his mother’s good faith, Carver helps Felix plant a little vegetable garden of his very own. It quickly becomes Felix’s pride and joy, second only to the improvement of his physical state. Now the wheelchair is almost laughable—he sits in it only as long as it takes to wheel from house to garden door, and then he’s up on his feet, running barefoot in the grass and digging in the dark, fertile earth, chasing carrots and onions and bushy fronds of lettuce and dill.

Carver, for his part, is… confused. He’s never felt this way before, not that he can remember, and he’s not sure how to interpret it. The anticipation and giddy delight at being in Felix’s company, the butterflies that invade his stomach whenever Felix smiles… baffling. He doesn’t dare speak of it to his mother—the very idea is so embarrassing it renders him mute and red-faced just thinking about it—and when he tries to go to Fenris he only feels clumsy and foolish, stammering over his own word until he gives up and flees for safer pastures. And as he can hardly speak of it to Felix, that leaves only Bethany.

One evening in the middle of July, as they walk back to their humble cottage from the Manor’s back gate, Carver purposely drags his feet and Bethany is quick to notice. She matches her strides to his and pretends to look about exaggeratedly, as though admiring the landscape that she’s seen every day for all sixteen years of her life, and finally Carver chokes the words out.

She listens quietly, and that in itself is calming. Bethany has always had that effect on him. When he’s finished, she takes him by the hand and settles them both on top of the low stone fence that runs along the track to their cottage, and looks him seriously in the eye.

“Carver, you’re my brother and I love you. But you are really very stupid sometimes.”

“ _Beth_ —”

“I’m sorry, I promise I’m not trying to make fun of you.” The sparkle in her eyes says otherwise, but he’s too sulky to care, so he sits quietly like a bump on a log and stares at the ground as she breaks the news to him gently. “What you’ve just described to me is a _crush_ , silly. You’re falling in love.”

“But—but he’s my _friend_ ,” Carver protests. Falling in love? Preposterous. He’d always expected to grow up and marry one of the maids or a girl from the village, bring her to live in his mother’s house, and raise a handful of fat, blue-eyed babies for Leandra to dote on. It was just what one _did_ , in his position. What was expected. As if he could pretend to ever hold the gaze of a young lord for longer than it took for him to grow up and realize he was worth far more than a junior gardener. “And I’m poor, anyway, so what does it matter? He would never look twice at me.” _Preposterous_ , he reminds himself, and yet now that Bethy has planted the thought in his head, he can’t seem to think of anything else.

“Carver.” She grabs his hand, dragging him back into the present. “Don’t be silly, Felix isn’t like that. You _know_ he isn’t.”

He does know it. But thinking any further on it is making him itch under his collar, so he hops off the fence and gives her his arm. “C’mon, dinner will be cold on the table by the time we get back.”

“Oh all right. Have it your way.” Fondly exasperated, she hooks their arms together and leads him like a lamb to the cottage.

Carver, for his part, tries to put her words out of his mind, and to some degree he succeeds. He doesn’t _want_ anything from Felix more than his friendship, which he already has, and he determines to enjoy it for as long as he has claim to it.

In the late summer, Carver goes to fetch Felix from the house on a Sunday and finds him morose and laying in bed, plucking listlessly at the sheets. He smiles wanly when Carver enters, but it falls away quickly and Carver goes to his bedside in a hurry to feel his forehead.

“What’s wrong? Are you ill?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t _feel_ ill. But the doctor came today and said I was _exerting myself_ too much, and now I’m not allowed outside for a week.”

Carver stares at him, aghast. “Exerting yourself? By—by being pushed around in a chair, for all he knows?” He goes to the window, which has been shuttered and locked, and fights with the claps to fling it wide, letting sun and fresh warm air spill in like a blessing. “Hang the doctor, we’re going out.”

“But—what if someone sees?”

“We’ll sneak out, no one will be the wiser. Trust me, Fee.”

As it’s a weekend, and the master gone from the house on a business trip, none of the offsite staff are around and the grounds are all but deserted. Carver and Felix slip through the gardens on foot, keeping close to hedgerows and peering around the tall, sculpted bushes until they’re well out of sight of the house, and then they make for their garden at a more relaxed pace. But as they draw near to the brick wall, voices lift in conversation—Felix darts out a hand and grips Carver’s wrist, and together they back away, around the corner where they can better hear what’s being said.

“It’s Bethy,” Carver whispers, recognizing her voice instantly, but he does not relax. “And Mr Rutherford.”

“The gardener? What is he doing here? I thought it was his day off.”

“Who knows. Patrolling the grounds, maybe, or checking on some of the further beds.” He pauses, listening a little longer, but Bethany seems to be holding her own—and the voices are getting closer. She’s leading him away from the garden. “C’mon, quick, this way.”

With Felix at his heels, he moves quickly along the ivy-covered all and turns the corner. Another turn and they’d be at the garden door, but here the boundary fence abuts the brick wall, blocking their path. Carver scrambles over without trouble and turns back around, arms out. “Here, grab my hands and try to climb over. It’s not too high.”

Lips sealed together in concentration, Felix takes his hands and braces his feet on the stacked fieldstone. It’s made more sturdy with mortar and poles of rough-hewn wood, but a stone slips free beneath his foot nevertheless, and he tumbles forward in a heap on top of Carver.

“Oof! I’m fine, I’m fine, hurry!”

Carver fumbles the key in the lock, but he gets it open and they slip inside. Mr Rutherford’s voice grows dim and then fades away as Bethy accompanies him to the back gate, and the boys flop on the grass, breathless and holding in laughter.

“That was close,” Felix giggles as the panic fades, giving way to giddy amusement. He props himself up on his elbows and toes off his shoes, then sits and pulls his socks off and rolls up the cuffs of his trousers, flexing his feet in the long grass. His toes a very long, with neat, clean nails, but he doesn’t seem to mind the grass-stained mess he’s sure to make of himself.

Carver sits up, too, checking his shirt for smears of green. “When d’you think you’re going to be ready?”

“Ready for what?” Felix asks innocently, then huffs when Carver gives him a _look_ . “I don’t know. Soon,  I suppose. Whenever he gets back from the continent _this_ time.” He huffs, a show of irritation, but then his shoulders slump and he confesses, “I’m… I’m nervous.”

“About your Da, you mean.”

“Yes. And…” He swallows, combing through the grass with his slim little fingers. “Well, what if it doesn’t _work_? What if he makes me get back into bed and—and stop walking?” He chokes a little and draws his knees up to his chest, burying his face in them. “I couldn’t bear it.”

“Fee. That’s not gonna happen.” Carver scoots over to sit nearer and puts an arm around his narrow shoulders. Still so small, even though it’s August and he’s grown stronger every day—strong enough that he can walk and run and dance without asking for help, although Carver still insists on measured breaks so he doesn’t strain himself.

Felix sighs and rests his head on Carver’s shoulder. “But what if it _does_?”

“Then I’ll come for you every day and we’ll sneak out and come here. No one knows about it, and no one will bother us. Martha would help cover for us. But like I said—it’s not going to happen. Your Da loves you, Fee, he’s just…”

“Just what?”

Carver stares at the ivied wall and remembers himself, six years ago, small and scared and asking constantly when Da was coming home. For the first time he thinks he understands, a little, Lord Alexius’ penchant for running away. “He’s scared, I think. To lose you. So he tries to hide you away like a little doll, only you’re not a doll you’re a _boy_. And when you show him that, I think maybe he won’t be so scared anymore.”

“I hope you’re right,” Felix says, still small-voiced.

“Of course I’m right. I’m always right. Just ask Bethy.” _Where is she, anyway?_

Felix laughs wetly and rubs his nose with the back of his sleeve. “Right. I’m sure she would agree with that.” He shakes his head, shrugging off the melancholy with effort, and Carver hauls them both to their feet. “What has to be done today?”

Caver looks around belatedly, wondering that same thing. The garden is in its prime now, or so it seems, exploding with color and the humming of bees going about their humble business. Honeysuckle and freesia splash their delicate, vibrant blooms against the ivy walls, irises and lilies parade elegantly together with the humble foxglove, their skirts all aglow. And the rambling yellow roses are in full glory, now, winding up the wall and over the bower that arches over the bench.

“Nothing,” he says at last, feeling at a bit of a loose end. “I think we can give it a rest day today.”

“Truly?” Felix looks around, too, hands on hips and brow furrowed in concentration. “I wish I had thought to have Martha pack a lunch basket. I wasn’t expecting to be outside.”

“That’s all right. Mum will be happy to feed us.”

“Does she know about—about me?”

“Yes,” Carver says, a bit guiltily. “But she would never tell anyone. And she doesn’t work at the Manor, anyway, so there’s no one to tell.”

“That’s all right. If you trust her, I trust her.” Felix smiles, eyes gone all crinkled, and Carver’s belly swoops unexpectedly. Unaware, Felix turns with hands on hips to the giant, gnarled oak. “I think I’m going to try climbing this tree. Will you help me?”

“Sure. Here, I’ll give you a leg up.”

With Carver’s hands laced together like a stirrup, it’s easy for Felix to boost himself up to the lowest-hanging branch. It’s thick and sturdy, and fringed with yellow roses that have meandered their way over like curious ducklings—Felix sits astride it as if it were a horse and plucks a few, taking care of avoid the thorns, and weaves the stems together in a neat circle while Carver wriggles up to sit opposite him.

“How are you _doing_ that?”

Felix shrugs. “I’m good with my hands. Not a lot to do when you’re laying in bed all day—Martha taught me knitting and crochet and lace-making to keep me occupied. It’s quite interesting, really, and if you want to make complex patterns you have to have a good head for maths. There.” He leans forward and bestows the circlet on Carver’s head as if it were a crown, and he a king. “Yellow suits you. Matches your eyes.”

“Oh. Um, thank you.” He reaches up to steady it on his hair, and manages to prick himself. “Ouch!”

“Careful,” Felix laughs, and grabs his hand, pulling it toward him. “Look, you’ve gone and made yourself bleed. I thought you were supposed to be good with plants.”

“I am when they’re not on my head,” Carver grumbles, but he allows Felix to blot away the little bead of welling blood with his nice handkerchief. When the bleeding stops, Felix lifts his hand and kisses the tip of his finger very softly, like a butterfly alighting there for a brief rest.

“There. Good as new.”

Carver feels his ears grow hot. “Thank you.” He curls his hand tight, fingertips tucked against his palm as if to preserve the little kiss there. Then, in a fit of boldness, he leans forward and busses his lips against Felix’s warm cheek. Felix makes a little surprised noise, but when Carver tries to back away he grabs him by one of his suspenders and reels him back in.

“Wait.”

Carver glances at him shyly from under his lashes. Felix is smiling, flushed a dusky rose color, and he’s got a yellow petal stuck to his cheek from Carver’s flower crown. He licks his lips nervously and leans close. When their lips meet, it’s damp and soft, and Carver’s heart is beating so hard inside of his chest he’s afraid it might jump out his mouth and run away.

There’s a scuffle at the door and they break apart, flaming red and breathing a little too heavily. But when Bethany bursts in, breathless, all of Carver’s paralyzing shyness melts away and a bolt of fear shoots through him even before she begins to speak.

“You have to leave, now,” she gasps, hands twisting urgently in her skirts. “I managed to lead Mr Rutherford away but then Martha met us and says Lord Alexius came home and went to Felix’s room and found him missing! And now they’re combing the house, and before long they’ll search the grounds and they’ll find you, and Carver, they’ll know you snuck him out and Martha says Lord Alexius is having _fits_ —”

“Help me down,” Felix blurts, interrupting her tirade. Carver is off the branch in a trice and helping Felix do the same, his limbs jittery with fear and excess energy. “Come on, quick, perhaps we can get to the house before anyone comes outside—I’ll just say you were wheeling me to the library for a book.”

“Looking like that?” Bethany frets, smoothing Felix’s rumpled shirt and whisking the roses of Carver’s head. Something in him cries out silently as she tosses them aside, but there’s nothing to be done about it.

“Too late for that,” Felix says, darting away from her and out the door. “Bethy, go home, so you won’t get in trouble. Now let’s go, quick!”

The lane is deserted, for now, so they scramble one by one over the low stone fence and sprint for the house, Felix in the lead and Carver close behind. In spite of himself, Carver feels the first tingle of elation starting in his breast. The wind in his hair, the grass under his bare feet, Felix’s speed and agility as they wind through the hedgerows—it’s almost like a race, but the only prize he wants at the end is for no one to get in trouble.

They’re so close. The side entrance they’d used is within sight, as long as they can cover the open stretch of ground between the hedge and the side garden, and they’re already rocketing toward it at top speed. Already he can hear Felix giggling, caught up in the chase and getting away with it—but it’s premature.

The side door swings open suddenly, and who should step out but Lord Alexius himself, taller than Carver had imagined, with only a very slight stoop rather than the deforming hunchback that he had always heard about. Carver manages to skid to a stammering halt, feet skidding greenly in the grass, but Felix’s momentum is too much and he goes careening straight into his father’s arms, sending them both back a few paces back against the door.

Carver feels suspended in time. He heaves for breath, watching as Lord Alexius stares at his son, hands to his shoulders, looking him up and down with disbelief etched into his face. Felix, too, is frozen, but eventually he starts to catch his breath and he stands up straight, shoulders back and proud, and he steps back without a single tremor to his legs for his father to observe.

“Please don’t be angry,” he says, small-voiced in spite of his daring posture. “I wanted it to be a surprise—I didn’t mean to worry anyone.”

Lord Alexius seems to shake off the speechlessness that has fallen over him and he straightens, too, glancing briefly over his son’s shoulder to where Carver lingers helplessly. “Felix. How long has this been going on?”

“Since spring, Father. It—it was just so beautiful outside, and Carver was so kind and patient, and in the garden I—” He snaps his mouth shut, realizing what he’s done, but his father has already heard.

“What garden?” His brows are drawn together, low and furious, but when Felix hesitates to answer he softens and reaches for him. “Felix, my boy. Please don’t be afraid of me. I’m not angry, only… well, consider me surprised, after all.”

And then, to Carver’s shock, he gets slowly to one knee and takes Felix into his arms. Felix makes a muffled sound—joy? Grief?—and throws his arms around his father’s shoulders. Feeling out of place, Carver looks away and wonders if he will be missed if he just… slips away.

“I thought you were traveling,” Felix says at last, a bit muffled by his father’s coat.

“I was. I just returned this morning—Martha told me what the doctor said, but I’m having a hard time believing it.” Lord Alexius draws back and looks at his son again, as if he fears that Felix will melt away into nothing if he looks away too long. There might be tears in his eyes, but Carver tries stubbornly not to notice them. “You mentioned a garden.”

“I… yes. Carver found it, and it’s ours. It was dead but we—he made it live again.” Felix twists around to look at Carver and beckons him closer. “Tell him, Carver. About Master Robin and the key.”

Carver comes forward, hands behind his back, as Alexius stands and looks him over. “I didn’t mean to trespass, sir,” he says, throat dry as dust. “I found a key in the grass one day, and—and there was a robin, and when I went to see what it was doing I found a door in the wall. All covered in ivy.”

“The garden,” Lord Alexius whispers, eyes turned hazy and far-off. “Take me there. Please.”

So they do. Carver in the lead and Felix walking hand in hand with his father, they pick their way across the lawn and down the little back lane to the ivy-covered door. It’s still unlocked from their frantic flight, and the door swings open easily when Carver pushes it. He stands aside, and Felix and his father walk in together.

If Alexius cries, he hides it well, and it only a bit red around the eyes when he turns to Carver a little while later. “You did all this?”

“Some, m’lord. It was beautiful before, it only needed someone to love it a little.” He glances at Felix as he says it, and blushes, staring at his bare, grass-stained feet. Alexius makes a little sound in his throat, part amusement and part regret, and he tightens his arm around his son’s shoulders.

“You speak too modestly, young Carver. It seems to me that you’ve worked a miracle.” He holds out his hand, and in spite of his averted eyes Carver sees it. They shake, brisk and almost businesslike, and then the lord of the Manor draws him in for a hug. He goes, stiff with shock—Felix grins at him and squeezes his hand after.

“Come on, Father. Let us show you the garden.”

Alexius nods, ruffling his son’s head before releasing both boys and putting his hands behind his back, chin high as if he were a captain preparing for a tour of his ship. “I would like nothing better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for this story, folks! But I definitely have a sequel in mind, so keep an eye out for that :)


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